To Purple, With Love
by trufflemores
Summary: 4.01 AU. Barry never spontaneously recovers. Iris doesn't need him to. Their relationship prevails. A companion piece to "Archipelago" and "From Red to Blue." Neither fic is required reading to enjoy this one.


_Won't you get lonely when he stops speaking for days at a time, retreating to a place you can't follow?_

 _Won't you get tired when your body aches with fatigue, but he still wants to go out into the world and you can't leave him alone?_

 _Won't you get bored when he repeats the same stories because he cannot pick up the bricks and mortar to build new ones?_

 _Won't you get frustrated when you want to vent to him, but he won't understand you?_

 _Won't you fall out of love?_

* * *

 _Lonely_.

One morning, Barry puts down his sketchbook and falls silent.

He doesn't respond to Iris, sitting in front of the windows and staring out at the city shrouded in blue morning light. She doesn't touch him because he doesn't like to be touched without warning, so she waits for him to come back to her. Her routine is sufficiently distracting that she can almost not worry about him until it's time to leave and he still hasn't looked at her.

Sitting beside him, careful not to touch him, she asks, "Are you okay?"

He doesn't blink, staring out at the city with a longing in his eyes like heartbreak. She stands and returns with his coat, setting it beside him, but he doesn't take it. It's a silent refusal to go out - mid-November, it's too cold to walk without one, even if you are The Flash - but Iris doesn't take it away, leaving it beside him.

She gives him space, calling into work to let her boss know that she'll be home for the morning, optimistic that Barry may come back around by noon. Setting up shop at the kitchen table, she puts on low classical music and consciously relaxes her jaw, tension permeating the space between her and the shadow at the window.

By two-thirty, she's made a different call and changed positions twice, table to couch, couch to window. She migrates towards him, silently hoping her presence might centralize his focus, but he doesn't acknowledge her, locked in his own world. She wonders if he doesn't see _her_ as frozen, if his whole world hasn't slowed down and left her behind. The urge to reach out and touch his shoulder is nearly strong enough to overcome her awareness that he will panic at best and flee at worst if she does.

She calls Dad by four, and he stays with Barry, nodding in agreement to the simple admonition not to touch him unless absolutely necessary. Even though she knows he's in good hands, there's still a fearful animal rattling the bars of its cage in Iris' chest, preventing her from truly enjoying her first outing of the day, an early dinner with Linda. They talk shop and try to steer as far from home as they can, but Iris' gaze wanders to the window, and her attention doesn't want to stick. She texts Dad twice before turning off her phone, trying to be present with Linda, but within half an hour she's begging off and returning home with the greatest haste she can summon and still remain nondescript in public.

She opens the door and finds Dad on the couch flipping through a case file, and Barry is sitting where she left him, the coat exactly where she left it, and Iris' heart hurts.

Dad offers to stay the night, but Iris shakes her head, assuring that Barry will come around and the couch isn't comfortable enough for him to sleep on. (She would know.) In response, he hugs her tightly and tells her to call him, no matter what time it is, and Iris nods and tries not to hear the door closing behind him.

No amount of distractions makes the space smaller. Barry fidgets in place, even stands and paces for a bit, restless but distracted, before returning to his vigil, pressed close to the window and shivering. She wants to put a blanket over him, her compulsion to help like an ache in her teeth, but she knows better, now, than to offer unwanted help.

She sleeps on the couch, and he sleeps curled up on his side by the window.

In the morning, he showers and brushes his teeth, but he doesn't meet her eyes, avoiding interaction with her to the greatest extent he can, trying to stay in that quiet lonely place she can't reach. It hurts when he scrambles away from her when she makes the mistake of joining him at the sink, a panicked little blitz that leaves her feeling winded with it, frustration and grief aching in her stomach.

She can't force down food, so she spends breakfast typing away, searching the Internet for help. She finds support but no answers, sympathy but no solutions, and at last concedes defeat and shuts the laptop down. Chin on her palms, restless and tired at once, she looks at him for a long moment, aware of how statuesque they must appear from the outside. "I want to help you," she says, and he doesn't respond, doesn't even flinch when she finishes, "but I don't think I can."

For six days, the silence drags on, a soldierly sort of endurance overtaking the warmth of routine. Barry eats, but only when she leaves him alone with a plate for an hour or more, food long gone cold. Iris isn't looking when she inevitably hears the quiet crunching of bread between his teeth. In the pervasive quiet, the noise is oddly soothing, and for the ten minutes it takes him to eat a stack of toast, Iris finds herself relaxing.

It's not the silence that bothers her, she realizes, because she lets the noise into their world, cracking open the windows to let the city in, keeping the radio on, talking on the phone: it's the solitude. She's never been alone with him, not in the truest sense of the word. There's always been a feeling of togetherness, an awareness of the other person even when they were frustrated or mad at each other.

But she isn't frustrated or mad at him now: she _misses_ him, missing him like leaves crunching under her boots, like conversations over coffee, like walks through the city. She feels the engagement ring on her finger and wonders if he even knows it's there, if he knows that he put it there and that she hasn't been able to take it off because it's a tether to him.

On the seventh morning, it's almost routine to wake up without the expectation of really seeing him. She's at the sink when he steps out of the shower smelling like fresh pine, and she aches to bury her face in his shoulder, to be with him, even if only on the surface, but she must ignore him, and he wanders away.

But he returns to her, unexpectedly, and taps on the door lightly, like he can't quite touch her shoulder. She turns to him and he meets her eyes, the burning amber warmth there taking her breath away. She waits for him to disappear, to vanish in a trail of yellow lightning, but he steps forward, arm's reach, and bows his head.

Reaching up, she runs a hand cautiously through his still-damp hair. His shoulders ease down, and he lets out a deep sigh that she feels in her own chest. He takes her hand and gently closes his own around it until it's a fist, and then he holds it to his heart and looks her right in the eye.

 _I love you._

It's his favorite phrase, one of the few constants in their new language, and Iris closes her eyes and presses her forehead against his shoulder, leaving her hand where it is.

 _I love you, too_.

Won't you get lonely? asks the quiet, doubtful voice.

 _Yes_ , Iris thinks, and loves him anyway.

* * *

 _Tired._

It's raining. It's forty-nine degrees and raining, but Barry still has his grey coat over his shoulders. Taking her cue, Iris puts on her dark green one, and off they go into the city.

She carries an umbrella, but Barry likes to stand in the rain until he's drenched, and then he starts shivering, almost-too-quick-to-see. When Iris touches his arm, the sleeve is warm and dry, and his smile is secretive and pleased. She marvels at the Speed-warmth he projects when he tucks his arm around her waist, still trembling almost imperceptibly, his lightning keeping her warm. She tugs him to a gentle halt at red-lights, her head aching quietly, her bones aching more.

She knows she'll get sick, knows it before they're halfway through their two-hour sojourn, but she doesn't tell him, and doesn't pull him away from the rain.

At last, he reaches for his coat, and normally reaching for it is enough to signal that he doesn't want to walk anymore, that he's satisfied, but he goes a step farther, unbuttoning it with shaking fingers and shrugging out of it. Iris' fingers are cold, and she wants to tell him not to take it off, it's too cold without it, but he drapes it over her shoulders, and it's so warm she could cry.

She hands him the umbrella for a moment and he holds it obediently while she tucks her arms through the sleeves of his Speed-warmed coat. Then he hands her back the umbrella and she tucks her arm through his, and together they walk home.

She wants to lie down so she does, still wearing both their coats, and she only means to close her eyes for a few minutes, but when she opens them there's a blanket over her and it's nearly seven at night. The aches in her joints are real, and for a time she just tugs the blanket over her head and stays under it, savoring the opportunity to rest. She doesn't know where Barry is, doesn't know what he's up to, but she can't bring herself to move.

Eventually, she finds out when, in a slight panic, Barry calls out, "Iris?"

"Here," she mumbles, pulling the blanket back. She goes to sit up, but her head throbs abominably, and she lies back down instead, an arm over her eyes. "S'okay, Bar."

A second blanket settles over her legs, and a smile twitches her lips. He piles on a third and she says, "No, honey." He removes it, and she's so surprised she moves her arm so she can look at him. Holding it bunched up in his arms like a pile of laundry, he looks at her inquisitively, and she nods and affirms, "That's right." He sets the blankets down on a chair. She replaces her arm over her eyes and exhales deeply.

She still has to make dinner, has to finish that article for work, but it's easier to lie down, easier to just listen as he drifts around the apartment with familiar ease. She hears him drawing on the walls and doesn't chastise him because Cisco cooked up some non-permanent markers for them and he only ever uses them on the walls. She does warn, "Bar," when she hears the stove start up, but he only replies, "Iris" and carries on.

The smell of pancakes is slightly nauseating, so she buries her head back under the blanket while he cooks, and then she hears a plate being set on the floor next to her. "Iris?" he whispers, like he's trying hard not to disturb her while still getting her attention.

"No, honey," she says again, voice muffled by the blankets, but he must get the message as he and the plate disappear.

Some amorphous time later, she's aware of him returning with a second plate. He asks again, "Iris?"

It still smells like pancakes, and it occurs to her that he thinks she's dissatisfied with the execution, not the thing. Amused and exhausted, she removes the blanket from her face and looks at him, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from her. The plate of pancakes sits in front of her, and he looks at her before looking back at it. After a beat, he reaches forward and pulls it towards himself. He looks only mildly confused, not disheartened. He gets up and returns to the stove. A great time later, he returns and folds himself on the floor, sliding a third plate in front of her. The pancakes on it are nearly charred.

With a supreme effort, Iris digs through two blankets and two coats for her phone. Barry tenses until she reveals it, and then he cocks his head at her inquisitively. "Red?" he asks, deferring to his own name for her, _red-like-irises_ , and she doesn't correct him. She carefully pulls up her dad's number and sends off a simple text: _Need a hand._

Barry retracts the plate of pancakes and goes off to make a fourth batch. At least, Iris muses, he isn't wasting them; she's seen him eat almost a hundred cupcakes in a single sitting. He has no trouble packing away huge quantities of food - even rather daunting numbers of burnt pancakes.

Dad doesn't knock, but he does announce himself when he opens the door. "Hey, kids," he says before grunting hard. Concerned, Iris sits up to see what happened, but she just finds Barry hugging him tightly. "Good to see you, too," he says, squeezing Barry back with rib-cracking firmness.

It's the right call: Dad restores order, putting a halt to the endless line of pancakes and cooking up some chicken soup instead. Iris watches them from the couch, arm hugging the back cushion as Dad works. He jots everything down before handing the final note to Barry. Barry studies the list, carrying it back to his sketchbook and tucking it in the front cover. When the soup is finished, Dad lets Barry carry the bowl over to her, and with great dignity Barry sets it in front of her. Iris picks it up, and Barry smiles a little.

Dad gets her settled with NyQuil and Iris finishes her soup before drowsing on the couch. It's like old times, listening to the boys hang out in the kitchen. Barry talks in a steady stream, a batch of words ranging from babble like "red-green-lights-are-mean" to perfectly coherent sentences, including "Tomorrow is still a night away." He says it with such earnestness, such audible passion that Iris feels her throat tighten, because she knows what he's talking about, and it's not singular occurrence.

But then he hushes and simply says, "Stars" and Dad fills the ensuing quiet with talk about football games that Barry doesn't like to watch on TV anymore. Iris hears the scratch of a pen on paper as Dad explains the game, and she can almost see Barry leaning in eagerly, occasionally tapping a circle or an x and declaring sharply, "First, first, first," with audible excitement.

She doesn't understand everything he says, doesn't translate every phrase he speaks, but she can feel the emotional presence, and she drifts to the sound of his voice, tired and taken care of.

Won't you get tired? asks the quiet, remonstrative voice.

 _Yes_ , Iris thinks, and loves him anyway.

* * *

 _Bored_.

Barry doesn't touch most books.

He will read whatever Iris puts in front of him, but he won't talk about it, setting the page or laptop aside after a time and looking at her. He'll smile and tap his chest twice, _I love it_ , and that's all. She can tell from his smile that it's sincere, but he doesn't seek out new material, content with his own stories, stories from Earths she is not destined to ever see. He sketches them in his book until he runs out of pages, and then he goes back and adds onto the existing sketches until they're absolute chaos.

Iris gets him another sketchbook, but he doesn't touch it, holding onto his overcrowded one protectively, always adding to it, including napkins he draws on, recipes he finds, and cut-outs of articles. When Iris brings home colored Sharpies, he draws until the ink bleeds through the pages, until the edges tear and the paper punctures in places, until the book is nearly destroyed. Then he rips out pages and reinserts them in different places, snapping the spine of the book one day in almost violent fury, but when she looks at him in concern there's only meditative concentration on his face, a tension in his shoulders like woodworking spelling no trouble.

At last, at last, he takes the bruised remains of the book, the damaged, bleeding edges, and hugs it to his chest. His joy is palpable, his deep, profound satisfaction almost hard to bear witness to. Iris ventures closer, and he reaches out and takes her hand. She sits next to him and he disappears in a Flash of yellow light, reappearing next to her in the jointed darkness of their apartment, silvered by the cityscape beyond.

Leaning her head on his shoulder, Iris watches as he carefully pries open the book. It's too dark to read, and for a moment she wonders if that isn't the point, if it isn't meant to be unreadable, and then she feels Barry shiver underneath her, his hands vibrating to obscurity underneath the book.

For nearly a minute, nothing happens, and then, all at once, colors erupt on the pages as his hands begin to glow golden-yellow, illuminating the scars and stars, the agony and ecstasy of it, sharp lines and intersecting curves, mesmerizing patterns dancing on and through the pages.

She can only stare in wonder at it, as he flips through it, focusing on keeping the light for her. But as he approaches the end, he lets his hands still, and slowly, slowly, slowly the light fades, and the stars fade away with it, and the entire universe collapses again.

He shuts the book softly and hands it to her.

And she knows he might never write or read another scientific article, but holding his universe, she knows that he hasn't lost his joy for it.

It's still warm in her hands, and she leans on his shoulder and sits in the darkness, basking in the soft, ambient glow for a long time.

Won't you get bored? asks the quiet, distrusting voice.

 _Yes_ , Iris thinks, and loves him anyway.

* * *

 _Frustrated_.

It's a long day at the end of a longer week, and Iris wants to wrap herself in Barry's arms and not move for a while.

Stepping inside their apartment, she finds him snoozing on the couch, his panic button nearby and untouched. It was Cisco's idea - and it took Iris a while to trust it, that Barry even knew what it was for and would use it if he needed - but so far, Barry hasn't ever used it.

She still remembers using her own panic button, the speed dial on her phone still set to his number. Once, if she needed him halfway across the city, he could be there before his heels stopped smoking. She ached for it at the office and she aches for it now. She's been at an emotional tipping point since noon, and in years past she would have called him by now.

But even standing in the same room as him, she doesn't draw his attention, doesn't ask for it. She sits at the kitchen table and rests her head in her hands, tears trickling down her face. God, she's tired, and lonely, and no amount of distractions can take the sharpness away, let alone the bite from her crippling day at the office.

 _Journalists have all the fun_ , she can hear him say, six years ago, his smile bright and simple, and she buries her sob in her arm because she just wants to go _home_.

And then home comes to her, his footsteps almost silent but his presence unmistakable as he settles into the chair next to her. He says, "Iris?" She tries to swallow back the next sob, but it doesn't let go, and she cries for too many things to name while he scoots his chair closer and rests an arm around her back, drawing her gently towards him.

He vibrates softly, a gentle, inaudible Speed-purr helping to smooth down the aching frustration in her chest and shoulders and soul. She turns towards him and fists his shirt, burying her face in his shoulder, and he just gathers her into his arms and holds her.

She reaches up, overcome with emotion, and taps her fist against his heart, over and over and over again, and knows he hears the message.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Won't you get frustrated? asks a quiet, sinister voice.

 _Yes_ , Iris thinks, and loves him anyway.

* * *

 _Loved._

The first snowfall is magical.

Barry stands outside in his grey coat in the late afternoon snow as it coats the city and smiles that Christmas-morning smile that Iris has to kiss. She says, "Barry" and he turns to look at her, beaming and flushed, and she cups his face gently and tugs his head down, pressing a kiss to his forehead instead, bleeding affection.

He replies softly, "Iris" and his breath mists a little, and when he is quiet like this, and looks at her like this, it is an old and new love, a thing she has never forgotten and a thing she has learned over the past three months, the past nine months since Barry left for the Speed Force.

Then he repeats, "Iris" and kisses her, and she tangles her arms around his neck and holds on.

Won't you fall out of love? asks a quiet, fearful voice.

 _Never_ , Iris thinks, meaning it with the immediacy and fervency of his breath on her cheek when he pulls back a little, and the ring on her finger pressed against his neck. _Never_.


End file.
